


I Tempt, You Thwart... Right?

by AEpixie7



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: But not quite, Crowley picks a whole bouquet of oopsie daisies, F/M, Hardcore wing kink, In the 70s, M/M, Mardi Gras, Multi, Pansexual!Crowley, Wing Kink, almost sexy times, because Lust knows no genders, drugs and sex, only orifices, reluctant Aziraphale, so you know, then horny Aziraphale, until he's high
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-11-13 19:44:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18037685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AEpixie7/pseuds/AEpixie7
Summary: "'Come to think of it… let’s make a game of it? You and me? I’ll see how many of these… lovely creatures I can tempt…' Crowley drawled, both hands preoccupied with the thighs of his targets. Aziraphale didn’t pull his eyes away as quickly as he probably should have.'And come tomorrow, you see how many of them you can redeem? Bit of good old-fashioned biblical fun, yeah?' Crowley watched as Aziraphale took another nervous gulp of his drink."An atTEMPT on Aziraphale's innocence...Or...Crowley accidentally-on-purpose roofies Aziraphale and then feels bad about it because Aziraphale is so high that he can't remember how to sober up.





	I Tempt, You Thwart... Right?

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not putting a rape/non-con warning on this, since Crowley doesn't actually do anything bad, because he's a sweet, innocent bean (don't tell his superiors). But if you've ever been drugged against your will, and don't want to read it... maybe, don't read?

_New Orleans, Louisiana. 1976. Mardi Gras._

Aziraphale pushed through the throng of people, his skin crawling from the proximity of so many bodies. It was loud, there were smells (both good and bad), and then there was Aziraphale- an angel in the middle of one of the biggest parties west of the Prime Meridian. 

He wanted to dip in to one of the pubs for a drink- at least dull his senses a bit. He was here on business, though, and it seemed irresponsible to partake of any alcohol when he should be focusing on his mission the following day. After the sexual revolution in the 60s and the budding drug culture of the 70s, the traditional meaning of these two days on the holy calendar had started to tip considerably toward bolstering the practice of Mardi Gras, and allowing Ash Wednesday to slip into obscurity. Aziraphale's mission here was to reverse that, and remind people that the point of all this revelry was to seek absolution and forgiveness, in their solemn observance of their limited time on Earth. 

But he _really_ wanted a drink. 

What he did _not_ want was any unnecessary distractions. So he couldn’t have been more surprised to find the Walking Unnecessary Distraction himself, clad in leather pants, a rich purple shirt, and an exorbitant amount of beads, slithering toward him through the crowd. 

“Aziraphale! What a surprise! What's a tosser like you doing in a joyous place like this?!” Crowley yelled over the crowd, slinging his arm drunkenly over Aziraphale's shoulders and rocking him roughly. Aziraphale rolled his eyes and attempted to duck out from underneath Crowley's arm, but the demon held him in place. “Shouldn’t you be… I dunno… yelling at people to go read a book or something?!” 

“I have no problem with revelry, Crowley, you know that…” 

“Oh! Well then you should join me! You want some beads?! You’ll have to show me your tits!” 

Aziraphale rolled his eyes _louder_ if that were possible, and Crowley laughed heartily. “Seriously, what are you doing here?” 

“I’m on a mission, Crowley. I’m _working_ so if you don’t mind, I am going to find a quieter place to observe, so I know what I need to do come tomorrow…” 

“Alright, alright, angel, don’t get your pants in a wad. I know a place. It’s quieter than here, that’s for sure. As it just so happens, I’m also here on work. If we head down to this little club I know, I can get in a bit of tempting, you can fabricate your little _plan_ for redemption. Plus they have booze. Whatya say?” 

Aziraphale most assuredly did _not_ want to follow the demon anywhere he suggested. If past experience served, it would be an unmitigated disaster and the angel would end up having to clean up the bloody hell spawn's mess. But he had said two words that he knew would always work on him. Quiet. And booze. 

The club was legitimate enough- a very old home in the downtown district, the interior decorated like a Victorian mansion. The walls were painted with dark purples and maroons, with elaborate gold chandeliers illuminating the rooms faintly with a dark umber glow. The fact that Crowley had had to whisper an entry password should have been Aziraphale’s first clue that it was not an ordinary club. 

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale cheeped, as a curvaceous woman approached, wearing only a thong and carrying a silver platter of deviled eggs. 

“Can I get the gentlemen a round of drinks?” she drawled in a French Cajun accent, her ebony curls bouncing as she tossed her hair over her shoulder, her eyes traveling slowly down Crowley’s torso and lingering somewhere in the vicinity of his belt buckle. Crowley stared unabashed at her breasts, helping himself to a deviled egg and eating it in one bite. 

“Yes please, one of those… _wonderful_ martinis I had last time I was here. Aziraphale, have a deviled egg. They’re positively _heavenly._ ” 

Aziraphale smiled at the girl, and she seemed almost offended that he kept his eyes squarely focused on her eyes. “Nothing for me, dear, I'm _on the clock,_ ” he said, leering at Crowley, who only smiled. 

“The Baron's Room is open for you, A.J. I’ll have your drink brought in immediately,” the girl said, bowing her head and strolling sensually away, her free hand grazing Aziraphale’s arm as she glanced back at Crowley with a wink. 

“You’ve brought me to a brothel, haven’t you.” 

Crowley giggled, jutting his jaw in the direction of a beautifully decorated arched doorway. 

“No, this is a perfectly respectable club for people of all persuasions. Everyone here is consenting, and the only way they are being compensated is in the satisfaction of their own actions.” 

Aziraphale followed as Crowley lead the way, to a very large room, scattered with oversized cushions and pillows, and a few sofas. Men and women occupied several of the furnishings, most of them too preoccupied with the mouths and skin of their companions to even notice the addition of an angel and a demon to their company. 

“So it’s a sex club.” 

Crowley plopped onto what was essentially a very large pillow, wiggling himself deeper into it comfortably. 

“Eh. More or less. Technically I believe they call it a Play House, but at least I wasn’t lying. There’s booze and it’s quiet.” 

As if to spite him, a man and woman’s simultaneous cries of passion could be heard through the wall, to which Aziraphale arched a very judgmental eyebrow. “I’m just going to assume they’re playing a rather exciting game of _Yahtzee,_ ” he said, deadpan, before finding an ornate Victorian sofa and sitting gingerly on it. He huffed an annoyed sigh as a pair of young lovers joined him, seemingly unaware of his presence, the girl straddling the boy before they began groping each other eagerly. 

Crowley almost felt bad for a split second as he watched Aziraphale squirm uncomfortably in the furthest corner of the sofa. 

Almost. 

The demon soon found himself surrounded by people of all genders, in various stages of undress. One girl approached, wearing little more than body glitter, and handed him a very fancy looking martini, before sitting sideways in his lap and running her hands through his hair. Her lips and teeth began exploring his collarbone, then his neck, then his earlobe. He sighed contentedly, but otherwise seemed unbothered by her presence. 

“Oh come on angel, lighten up!” Crowley barked, tossing a string of beads toward Aziraphale, who caught it out of necessity, lest it hit him in the face. He looked down at the thing, before closing his hand around it and holding it awkwardly in his lap. Crowley chuckled, before taking a sip of his martini, deciding he very much liked whatever it was, and rewarding the girl who had provided it with an open-mouthed kiss. Aziraphale cleared his throat uncomfortably, and pulled his coat tighter around him as one of the lovers' elbows grazed his arm. 

“This is a disgrace upon the entire concept of lent. It’s supposed to be about restraint and sacrifice, not indulgence and sin,” the angel griped, though his eyes involuntarily followed a half naked man who walked by carrying a woman in a very compromising and… if he had to admit… very athletically challenging position. 

“Uh-uh angel, that’s tomorrow. You wait your turn. Today is _my_ day. Today is about enjoying all that life has to offer, to remind yourself _why_ you sacrifice, right? Besides, where’s all that heavenly bliss supposed to come from if you've got no sin to be absolved of in the first place?” 

Aziraphale frowned, and Crowley laughed out loud. That was the _well-Bollocks-you've-got-a-point_ frown that Crowley loved so much. He watched Aziraphale, sitting uncomfortably and trying desperately (and failing) to keep his eyes from wandering to the various sins occurring around the room. 

Crowley handed his martini to the girl, a wicked grin spreading across his lips. He licked just below her jaw with his serpentine tongue, causing her to shudder, before whispering in her ear. 

“Why don’t you take this drink over to my friend there. He’s a little uptight, I think maybe he needs your… _assistance_ to relax a bit, yeah?” 

She glanced over at Aziraphale, shrugging nonchalantly before standing and sauntering in a very catlike manner toward the angel. 

“What? Uh… no, Crowley… _help,_ ” Aziraphale's voice became a squeak at the last word, as the girl shoved the drink in his hand, before meandering behind the sofa, one hand gloriously mussing up his hair and the other venturing down his chest. 

Crowley continued to laugh, though he once again almost felt an itch of guilt over the current look of mortification on the angel's face. 

Almost. 

Crowley leaned back as a rather tan, muscular boy knelt behind him, his fingers working deeply in rhythmic circles on the demon's aching shoulders. Crowley moaned with pleasure, rolling his head back and enjoying the view of his new friend. 

“Oh, angel, relax. I’m not saying you have to sin or anything. I know you can’t. But at least don’t be such a prude. You're killing my buzz.” 

The angel's silence seemed odd, but Crowley was rather distracted by the lines of muscle above him, and so it took him a moment to venture a glance as to why. 

When he finally looked over, he found Aziraphale, still sitting like a petrified statue, but the girl was whispering in his ear while she pulled his bowtie loose and tossed it haphazardly over her shoulder. Crowley caught the tail end of what she'd whispered, something about liking his blonde hair and how she’d very much like to have her hands fisted in it. Aziraphale’s eyes widened, but he seemed abnormally fixated on where his bowtie had gone. His shoulders sank when a boy ran by, picked up the discarded bowtie, and used it to spank the girl. 

“Alright love, I’d give up if I were you, you're not gonna get anywhere with that one,” Crowley teased, and Aziraphale visibly relaxed when the girl peeled herself away from him. She gave his hair one last tussle, before approaching the cushion that Crowley was currently occupying and plopping herself next to him. She had his shirt unbuttoned and her hand drawing abstract shapes on his skin in no time flat. 

“Seriously, let loose a little. Enjoy your drink. 'S good. If you’re really uncomfortable, you can leave, though I’d hoped you’d stay. Since when do we both get the opportunity to show off our… _particular talents_ on occasions so close as these? It’s almost ineffable, really. Fat Tuesday, Ash Wednesday. I tempt, you thwart? We’ve been doing it since the dawn of time.” 

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, though Crowley could see the hint of another damn well-reasoned argument sneaking into a frown. The angel finally took a small sip of his drink, letting out an appreciative noise. It was good. Crowley grinned mischievously. 

“Come to think of it… let’s make a game of it? You and me? I’ll see how many of these… _lovely_ creatures I can tempt…” Crowley drawled, both hands preoccupied with the thighs of his targets. Aziraphale didn’t pull his eyes away as quickly as he probably should have. 

“And come tomorrow, you see how many of them you can redeem? Bit of good old-fashioned biblical fun, yeah?” Crowley watched as Aziraphale took another nervous gulp of his drink. 

“Is my presence really necessary? Can’t we just… use the honor system?” 

Crowley giggled, the sound melding into a groan as the girl's hand ventured lower down his stomach, at the same time as the boy behind him rubbed his thumbs into his neck. 

“You really trust _me_ with the honor system? Besides, you’ve been watching me tempt for centuries. Why is this any different?” 

“Well because Lust isn’t usually your… _raison d'etre,_ as it were. Isn’t this… a bit too narrow of an impact, for you? Don’t you like to… damn a much larger lot of them in one go?” 

“Typically, yes. So I'm being a bit selfish this evening. Sue me. It’s a very rare occasion that I really get to _enjoy_ my job. So I'm gonna take advantage of that,” he drawled, tipping his head back to steal an upside down kiss from the boy, the girl seizing the opportunity to suck at his exposed throat. He made an animalistic growl into the boy's mouth, the sound stirring something in Aziraphale that he gulped down with the last of his martini. 

Crowley pulled his attention away from his companions, drunk with desire, but eventually settled on the angel. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees as the girl kissed his shoulder, her hands working at pulling his shirt down his arms. He shrugged out of it, and pulled his sunglasses from his eyes. Before another moment passed, he unfurled his black wings, to the delight of his consorts and the horror of an angel. 

“Why don’t you make yourself comfortable?” Crowley said sarcastically. “You look positively _rigid._ ” 

“What on _Earth_ are you doing?! Have you entirely lost your mind?! They can’t see you like this!” Aziraphale berated the demon in hushed tones, and only received a nonchalant chuckle in return. 

“These people are higher than Her Majesty's Royal Air Force, Aziraphale. _The Pope_ could be a demon for all they know. Besides…” he jutted a thumb back toward the boy behind him, who was staring down at the black feathers of his wings as if they were the gold dubloons at the end of a vivid, drug-induced rainbow. 

“This one's quite talented with his hands. It’d be a shame to waste it on just any patch of skin. I want to know what it feels like to _God almighty!_ ” Crowley practically cried, and Aziraphale jumped, his empty martini glass tumbling to the ground and his hand clutching the armrest of the sofa so hard that it creaked. Not in six millennia had he ever heard words even remotely akin to those escape the demon's lips. 

Crowley melted back into the boy behind him, as his hands worked into the joints of his wings where they met his back. “Don’t stop doing that, yeah?” Crowley mumbled, before the building shook with a deep, carnal growl that made Aziraphale's skin crawl and his knuckles itch. He jumped up from his spot next to the lovers, nervously ringing his hands. 

“Crowley this is _highly_ irresponsible of you. Our wings are… divinely gifted extensions of us. Not of our corporations, _us._ ” 

“Well they’re not gonna touch themselves _fuck me…_ ” 

The boy took this opportunity to whisper in Crowley’s ear “I thought you’d never ask,” which earned another ground-shaking growl. 

“Crowley _please_ stop this insanity, you’re essentially allowing a human to touch your demonic soul. That kind of contact with the divine, it’s… well it can’t be allowed. You don’t know what that will do to that poor boy's soul…” 

Crowley was all but panting and sweating, the girl next to him enraptured by his state, her hand grazing lightly down his stomach muscles. He shuddered beneath her touch, and Aziraphale fidgeted uncomfortably, though he couldn’t look away. No one _ever_ touched their wings. As much as it shamed him, he was starting to feel a wildly blooming curiosity. 

“Aziraphale, even if this were to miraculously fast-track his soul straight to Heaven and ensure years of torture for me, it’d be worth it because _Lords Above and Below have mercy…_ ” 

Several more people had heard the commotion, and soon countless hands reached out for obsidian feathers and skin. Aziraphale’s cheeks blushed deeply as he turned his back, the number of people surrounding Crowley quickly outnumbering even the Archangels of Heaven. He was going to have his work cut out for him on Ash Wednesday. 

The angel practically screamed when hands pressed to his back, above where his wing joints lay hidden beneath layers of cotton button-up and argyle sweater vest. He attempted to step away from the touch but for some reason he found himself off balance, pressing back into those hands. “Aziraphale… have another drink,” Crowley said from just behind him, handing him another martini. The orange peel in the martini looked brighter than any orange he ever remembered, and Crowley’s hand that lingered on his shoulder blade was strangely warm and comfortable. The martini was like nectar of the Gods (pardon the Blasphemy), and even as the vodka burned his throat, he downed the entire drink. Had Aziraphale not been so uncharacteristically distracted by how smooth Crowley’s voice was, he would have noticed the devious smile. 

“Sit down, angel,” Crowley whispered into his ear, his hand gripping the angel's shoulder lightly and directing him back to the Victorian sofa, now conspicuously devoid of any other people. He hovered behind Aziraphale, his hands innocently massaging the angel's shoulders. “I know you’re uncomfortable, I want to help you… relaxssssss…” Crowley hissed, his wing draping over Aziraphale's arm. The angel cleared his throat as he became unnaturally fixated on how soft the feathers were, the uppermost joint of Crowley’s wing lifting to caress the side of his neck. Aziraphale wanted to scream at his corporation for leaning into the touch. What had gotten into him?! 

“My, that’s… well that’s not entirely… unpleasant… Crowley… _stop_ … what have you… you’ve done something, you can’t tempt me, you _wouldn’t_... I don't feel… right…” 

“Ahhhhh, yes, you’ve seen me tempt a million times. But you’ve never been the recipient of my tempting. Hard to resissssssst, isn’t it?” 

Aziraphale opened his mouth to say something but merely squeaked when he felt Crowley’s fingertips in his hair. “I’m just _that_ good.” 

Crowley chuckled into Aziraphale’s ear, and he swore he felt the graze of serpentine tongue over the crown of his ear, but it was so light it may have just been a breath of wind. 

“I also have it on good authority that there was a _lot_ of ecstasy in your drinks.” 

Aziraphale sat up straight, his back stiff as a board, but Crowley's hands on his shoulders stopped him from standing. 

“What? How dare you, that’s not even… well I’ll just sober up then…” 

“Awww, come on angel, that’s no fun…” 

“Unlike you, I am not here for _fun,_ I’ve got a job to do and you’ve…” he stuttered as he tried to remember how to sober up. In fact, he tried to remember anything farther back than a few moments ago, before Crowley’s feathers were draped so nicely over his arm, and his strong hands rested reassuringly on his shoulders. What year was it again? 

“Well you’ve made it… so much harder for me to… Crowley… how does one sober up again?” 

“Show me your wings, angel.” 

Yes, that certainly would help, wouldn’t it? That made sense. 

He did as he was told, his sparkling white wings making everyone in the room stop what they were… goodness were they… fornicating?! In front of God and everyone?! 

Aziraphale didn’t have the attention span to be mortified at such a sacrilegious display, mere feet away, because Crowley’s hands ventured beneath his feathers and… 

“ _Oh Lord and Savior!_ ” Aziraphale gasped, and Crowley chuckled darkly next to his ear, followed by a quiet, satisfied hiss. 

“The name's Crowley but you can call me whatever you like…” 

“My dear, do _shut up,_ that is… _marvelous…_ ” 

Aziraphale rolled his shoulders, closing his eyes and pushing his wings back into Crowley’s magnificent ministrations. 

“They’re sensitive, right? It’s amazing what being touch starved for millennia can do to you… it’ll even make the world's most insufferable angel succumb to a demon…” 

“I’m fairly certain that’s the drugs, dear.” 

“ _Do you want me to stop?_ ” 

And there it was, the moment of truth. Crowley knew it all too well. He had breached this exact predicament a thousand times before. Pushing Aziraphale just to the brink of where he knew he had to stop, and inevitably, he would. Because Aziraphale always commanded him, in no uncertain terms, to stop. And Crowley always did. He dug his fingers into Aziraphale’s wings desperately, trying to savor the feel of them for a few moments longer. They really were magnificent. 

Aziraphale grimaced at Crowley’s question. He really ought to tell him to stop. But he couldn’t believe how utterly weightless he felt. Like he had never felt anything before that moment when Crowley’s hands touched his wings, nor would he ever feel anything again if he stopped. He was tingling in ways and places an angel most definitely should _not_ tingle. It was the most euphoric he’d felt since the moment of his own creation. 

He didn’t even notice his hand had reached up to claw at the back of Crowley’s neck, the demon's surprised gasp and ensuing sigh slithering past his ear and making him emit the most unangelic whimper. _Tell him to stop. NOW._

“ _Crowley…_ ” 

And suddenly Crowley was gone, the absence of his heavenly touch making Aziraphale whine. “Oh Crowley _don't stop…_ ” 

“Nope. Come on angel,” Crowley barked, and Aziraphale opened his heavily-lidded eyes to find him standing in front of him, holding his hand out and looking stern. “This was fun when I didn’t think I could actually break you. It’s not funny anymore. Let’s find you a bedroom and you're gonna sleep this off, if you really can’t figure out how to sober up.” 

Aziraphale's head was swimming, but he took Crowley’s hand, feeling an all-encompassing _need_ to follow every command the demon uttered. He wavered, and practically melted against his friend when he wrapped his arm around his waist, tugging him along as he walked. He lost all sense of time as they wound through corridors, entirely enraptured by the feeling of Crowley’s tall, lean body supporting him as he staggered along. The next thing he knew, Crowley was helping him crawl onto an ornate Chez lounge in the corner of a bedroom… somewhere. 

“I’m sorry angel. This was stupid. _I'm_ stupid.” 

“No, you’re not… you’re not…” Aziraphale slurred, clinging to Crowley’s bare shoulders as he lowered his friend to recline onto the velvet red lounge. “You’re… _soft_ is what you are _my goodness…_ ” Aziraphale’s hands slid over Crowley’s shoulder blades, his hands working into the feathers of his wings with such delicate pressure that Crowley groaned plaintively and had to bite his lip to keep from all but sobbing, bracing himself on the back of the lounge. His eyes burned red for a moment, as he saw Aziraphale, so deliciously vulnerable beneath him, and had to physically restrain the demon within him. _Such easy prey…_

His voice was weak with tremors when he spoke. “I’m not going to watch you Fall because of my mistake. _Please,_ Aziraphale… _sleep…_ ” he placed his hand on Aziraphale's cheek, and willed all the power he could into his command. Aziraphale's eyes grew heavy and his hands slackened amongst his feathers. Crowley shivered as his gentle fingers grazed the sensitive skin of his wings as he fell unconscious, Crowley leaning him back in the lounge and propping several pillows behind him. 

He turned and stormed from the room, his blood boiling from keeping himself contained in a currently quaking corporation. He needed to shag the ever living _hell_ out of something, immediately, or he just might explode. 

*** 

Aziraphale awoke feeling refreshed, though his back was sore, and a cursory glance at the vintage-looking Chez lounge beneath him explained a lot. He stretched his arms and wings, the very action of moving his wings flooding him with things he wished to Heaven he could’ve forgotten. He frowned at his own memories, before he stood, vanishing his wings and pulling his pocket watch out, a defeated sigh escaping his lips as he did so. 

He looked up at the room around him, and almost combusted from the rush of blood to his cheeks. 

Crowley sprawled unconscious on the bed, wearing all the clothes that existed in Eden. At least five other people lay draped in various positions over him, all of them equally as naked, and all around the room- on the bed, on the floor, even beneath the lounge where Aziraphale had slept… there must have been twenty people absolutely, unapologetically… naked. 

Aziraphale retrieved a pillow from the lounge and chucked it at Crowley, hitting him square in the face. The demon sat bolt upright, a few pairs of arms that had been haphazardly draped over him flopping down onto the bed around him. 

"What?! Huh?! Whatsit... who?" He choked, before his eyes adjusted and he realized it had been Aziraphale pelting him with a pillow that woke him. 

"What... in the _bloody hell_ Aziraphale?! What time is it?" 

"8 a.m…” 

"Oh for Satan's sake..." 

"…On Thursday." 

Crowley's sleep-addled scowl slowly climbed into a grin. 

"So you mean to tell me... we slept through Ash Wednesday?" 

"It would appear that way, yes." 

Crowley erupted with laughter, several of the people around him groaning and squirming on the bed. Aziraphale rolled his eyes, and miracled Crowley's trousers into his hand, holding them out toward him insistently while trying desperately to find anywhere in the room he could focus his eyes to avoid any human _unmentionables._ He finally settled on staring at the ceiling as Crowley crawled from the bed and pulled his trousers on. 

“So… I won, then. I won the bet.” 

“I seem to remember you saying it was a _game,_ not a _bet._ A bet implies I owe you something for your victory, other than that smug grin I’m sure you’re wearing.” 

The demon's silence piqued Aziraphale's curiosity, and he ventured a glance down at his counterpart. Sure enough- the most smug grin of all smug grins. 

“And I trust it goes without mentioning that we will never speak of this again?” Aziraphale said, much to Crowley’s amazement. 

“And why the hell not? Not only did I win the bet _and_ make you fail your mission here, I very nearly tempted you! _An angel!_ Why wouldn't I want to gloat about this for all eternity?” 

Aziraphale smiled- an action which, at the current status quo, seemed very strange. 

“Because, my dear, if you never mention that you nearly tempted me, I'll never mention that, when it came down to it, when you had the opportunity, you... _a demon… refused to do it._ ” 

Crowley’s face drained of color, and he stood still as a statue, his serpentine eyes darting between Aziraphale’s sky blue ones. He clearly didn’t expect Aziraphale to remember what had transpired while he was inebriated. He swallowed hard, before willing all of his clothes and sunglasses back onto his person. 

“Deal.”


End file.
